


Sick Day

by JustDrinkTea



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustDrinkTea/pseuds/JustDrinkTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is John and you are sick as a dog. To make it worse, your boyfriend won't leave you alone. All you want to do is sleep- is that really too much to ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Day

Your name is John Egbert and you want to die.

Okay so maybe you don't really want to die, but you want to be rid of these horrible symptoms you're experiencing. All day you've been miserable; your head feels like it's filled with clouds and it's been several hours since you've actually been able to breathe through your nose. Your body keeps trying to rectify the latter problem by constant sneezes, but so far the only thing that's done is make your headache worse.

You've been laying in bed for most of the day trying to get some sleep. So far that hasn't really worked out; it seems that your cold is determined to keep you awake and as unhappy as possible. The nice little pile of tissues on the side of your bed serves as proof to this.

After about two hours of tossing and turning and blowing your nose, you finally start to feel yourself drift into sleep. Needless to say, you're more than happy to oblige to your drowsiness. But while you're plenty prepared to indulge in a much-needed nap, it seems that the world has other ideas. Almost as soon as you're asleep, you hear the front door to your apartment slam. You groan and almost consider crying out of pure frustration. Almost. You're not some kind of wimp or anything.

"You home, John?" a familiar voice calls from outside your bedroom.

You respond with an unhappy, "Yeah I'm here." You grimace. Great, your headache decided to come back.

The door opens and Dave sticks his head in through the crack. "You look awful," he says, his expression the same as ever and his voice the flat monotone he uses when he's trying to sound like he doesn't care.

"Yeah?" you respond, sniffling a bit. "You think?"

He steps in and sits on the side of your bed. You really want him to get lost, but you decide to give him a few minutes to confirm that you're not dying before you kick him out. He puts a hand to your forehead, using his free hand to feel his own brow. "You feel a little warm," he concludes.

You already knew this.

"Want me to get you anything?" Usually Dave never offers to go out of his way to get you shit- whether it be food, a drink, some goddamn toilet paper- and the gesture kind of catches you off guard.

Regardless, you're still sick and you still want nothing more than to sleep. "No but I want you to go away," you say bluntly. You can apologize for your rudeness later. But for now, if being snarky and crude got you a few hours of rest, then dammit you were going to turn on your douche setting up to high. Watch out everyone, John is in an awful mood and if you cross him he's gonna make you twice as miserable as he is- and that's a lot of misery.

"You know, my spicy chicken soup will clear your nose up no problem. You'll be able to breathe again. If you prefer not breathing, that's cool, too."

You let out a groan. The last time Dave had been sick he had made a bunch of the stuff- apparently his bro made it whenever either of them were miserable. And while it seemed to work, it was the spiciest and most awful thing you have ever tasted- and you had only braved one bite of the damn stuff. But since Dave probably didn't have any tastebuds, he was able to down three servings before he even felt the slightest tingle, the asshole.

"Dave shut up and leave," you say. But you know he won't. Or if he does, he'll just be back in a few minutes. If he leaves then that means he'll be alone and bored- two things he absolutely hates.

"I'll go make you some."

"Don't you dare."

"You'll feel better."

"I just want to sleep."

Dave clicks his tongue. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"What?" You're not used to Dave being so concerned about you. This is concern, right? It takes you a moment to try and discern whether or not he's got an ulterior motive or not. Or maybe in your sickness, you've begun to hallucinate. Is this real life?

"Have. You. Eaten. Anything. Today?" He speaks very slowly and it kind of ticks you off. Well, it just makes you even more ticked off. "God are you losing all your senses?"

You huff. "No. I'm not hungry."

"You just wanna sleep?"

"I just wanna sleep."

He stands up without another word and walks out of the room, leaving you alone finally.

Happy to be alone, you roll onto your side and experience the unpleasant sensation of one nostril draining and the other plugging up even more. You groan, but try to fall back into an unconscious state. You know he'll be back after a while, but you decide to take advantage of his absence and get as much sleep as you can. You curl up onto your side and sneeze twice. Maybe a nap won't be as easy as you'd like it to be. You sniffle a few times and stretch out, trying to get comfortable.

You don't even get that far before Dave comes in and interrupts you again.

You are so not in the mood for this, groaning as soon as you hear the door squeak open. "Daaaave," you whine, "go awaaaaay." You turn to look at him. He's standing in the doorway with a bowl of something steaming in one hand and a tall glass of ice water in the other.

"Just do me this solid," he says. "Then I'll get off your case. I mean, that case and I were pretty tight bros, but for you, I will bury that case under six feet of dirt, hear what I'm saying? All you gotta do is eat, man. Don't even have to think about it." He walks over to you and offers you the white bowl.

You glare up at him, but take the bowl from him anyway. Anything to get that sleep you want. Thankfully, the liquid in the bowl looks nothing like his spicy chicken soup. You take an experimental sip. It's just chicken broth, no spices added. Thank god. And it actually tastes really good. Your stomach growls hungrily- the traitor. You can see Dave smirk out of the corner of your eye as he sits back down on the bed, watching you.

Ignoring the spoon, you drink the soup straight from the bowl. It's hot, but not enough so to burn your tongue. "Thanks," you mumble bitterly in between sips. You aren't exactly happy that he was right about you needing food. He offers you the glass of water and you take it, setting the bowl carefully on your lap. The cool water tastes good against your hot tongue and feels even better running down your throat. Once you've finished downing half the liquid, you press the cold glass up against your forehead. That feels fantastic.

"Feel a little better now?" Dave asks, bringing you out of your little, cool world. You half expected him to have more of an 'I-told-you-so' attitude about it, but instead he seems quite the opposite. This is not a side of Dave you're used to seeing- actually, you had been convinced that this side of him hadn't even existed. It's too bad you had to feel as crappy as you do to see it.

Before responding, you remove the glass from your head and take another sip. "A little. I'm still really clogged up, though." Your head still feels cloudy, but at least you can almost breathe out of your nose now.

"I told you, spicy chicken soup-"

"No." you say firmly. No matter how awful you feel, you refuse to give into that trap. You can get better on your own and you'd much suffering through the sickness for a few days sounded a lot better than the burning pain that soup would bring.

You refuse to go through that again.

Deciding it might be safe to try and sleep again, you hand the glass and bowl back to Dave. "There, I ate. Can I sleep now?" You sound a little more annoyed than you meant, but you're tired and don't really care.

Dave is quiet for a minute, but takes your things. "Yeah," he said.

Wow. A one-worded response from Dave Strider. That doesn't happen often. You almost feel like you should be concerned, but because you know you won't get an honest answer out of him, you refrain from asking. Besides, you're pretty sure you know the answer.

You're pretty sure you're the answer.

"Thank you," you say as you lay down. You feel the mattress spring up as he stands, the floorboards creaking a bit under the weight of his feet. He walks out slowly and quietly, shutting the door behind him. You curl up once more, pulling the blankets close to your chin. With something in your stomach and your nose cleared up a little more than it had been an hour, you're able to fall asleep within a few minutes.

About half an hour later, you're up due to another couple of sneezes. You lean over the edge of the bed to grab a tissue, but you're stopped by something tightening around your middle. You glance down.

Arms. There are arms wrapped around your stomach. You glance behind you and sigh a little, shaking your head and smiling a bit to yourself. For some odd reason, you have a feeling there'll be some spicy chicken soup cooking later tonight- but it won't be for you.

**Author's Note:**

> What did I just write. I'm sorry fandom. I'm sorry JohnDave shippers. I'm done now.


End file.
